Those who live without love
by Goonlalagoon
Summary: Before there was Lord Voldemort, there was just Tom Marvolo Riddle. He wasn't quite a normal child, but he wasn't quite a monster either. Not then. But he became one. (Rated 'T' for safety, suspect is actually 'K plus')
1. Chapter 1

** So, as you are probably aware, I am not JK Rowling. This is sad for me, but probably good news for the entire Harry Potter fandom.**

Please read & review! Feedback (even if it's why you're not going to read to the next chapter) is useful.

* * *

**Because before there was Lord Voldemort, **

**There was only Tom Riddle.**

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**1**

Tom stood quietly, looking at the platforms. He refused to panic, but he did mentally rebuke himself for not thinking to check how you got to platform 9 3/4. He'd intentionally been early: every minute he spent in this world - his world – was one less he had to spend at the orphanage. He supposed that he'd just have to wait, and keep an eye out for any other witches and wizards.  
"Um, excuse me?" He glanced to his left, scarcely taking in the figure, focusing on the trunk, and cat in a cage. A witch.  
"Yes?" She nodded at his trunk.  
"I think you might be going to the same school as me? Train leaves at eleven, right?" Despite his natural distrust, Tom was impressed. He'd already checked the timetables: there were no other trains leaving at eleven. It was a very neat way of checking that he really was going to Hogwarts, one that he'd been thinking of using himself when the opportunity arose. He nodded.  
"Eleven o'clock, platform nine and three quarters." She smiled.  
"The platform was supposed to open at nine thirty. I don't think that anyone else is here yet, though. I'm going to wait on the other side." Tom glanced at the clock. Thirty-five past. He picked up the handle of his trunk, and followed half a step behind her.  
"Are you a first year too?" He nodded. "Brilliant. I'm Penny Rooks, by the way."  
"Tom Riddle." She stopped by the barrier, and glanced around.  
"I'm not sure how to do this. The landlord at the Leaky Cauldron said you just walk through, but I think people might notice." Tom had spent a lot of time manipulating people, and he knew immediately that she was acting. Unusually, he felt embarrassed. She'd realised he didn't know how to get onto the platform, and was telling him in a way that pretended he already knew.  
"Lean against it, as though we were talking." She nodded, pony tail bobbing, and they leant against the wall, passing straight through it.  
Tom ignored her for a few minutes, drinking in the platform. A gleaming red train was already there, with bustling workers dashing around, unlocking carriages, stocking up the food trolleys.  
"The Hogwarts' express." Penny was staring at the machine as avidly as he was. She grinned at him suddenly, and pointed to nearby benches. "I'm going to wait over there until they let people on. You?"  
"Same, I guess."  
They sat, and he was pleasantly surprised to realise that she didn't expect him to talk. Almost immediately, her nose disappeared into a spell book. He got out one of his own school books, and began reading it.

"You can put your things on the train now, dears. You two were early, weren't you?"  
Tom didn't appreciate being called 'dear', but smiled politely and thanked the woman. Penny stretched as she stood up.  
"That's the best bit of being early. You can pick the best seats." For just about the first time in his life, Tom genuinely didn't want to find a separate compartment. He was starting to feel nervous. For all that he knew his father _must_ be a wizard, he wasn't quite certain what other witches and wizards would be like. Penny was obviously muggle-born, or possibly a half-blood like him. Idly, he wondered why she'd come to the platform alone, but didn't ask. Without discussion, they both stayed in the carriage while the other students arrived on the platform. Tom watched the platform through the window, listening to the snatches of conversation that came through. He was practised at picking up information that way, and he noticed Penny watching the other arrivals too.

He spent the train journey in much the same way, discreetly listening to the conversation of the people sharing their carriage while reading one of his books. He picked up on a fair few pointers - they were all second years - which boosted his confidence. Before even arriving at the castle he knew which were the soft teachers, which to look out for, and a few shortcuts.

Tom stared at the ceiling.  
Slytherin. He'd read all about Hogwarts, of course, locking himself in his small room at the orphanage, and he'd decided immediately that Slytherin was the place for him. But to have the hat perch on his head for mere _seconds_, long enough only for it to whisper that '_just where you belong…a real thirst for power, the cunning to grasp it…and with that blood...'_  
It was the strongest lead he'd had to finding his father other than his name.

And, of course, there'd been the unofficial test. Nothing had been said, of course. But he'd felt everyone in the common room silently sizing up the new first years. Snide comments, a few prank spells, and reactions monitored. He'd watched his year mates, weighing them up for himself, and relied on his own manipulation to give a good impression. Sly responses, a quick flick of the wand with a very basic shielding spell – his first real magic, not just small flashes of power! - and he'd earned himself a reputation. Tom smiled to himself, truly happy for the first day of his life. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see the outline of the castle over the lake, just as it had appeared when he first arrived.

Home at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Tom kept his head down at breakfast, watching and listening rather than talking. Better to wait, make sure he knew where he stood. He also realised almost instantly that he was being closely scrutinised by the teachers, particularly Dumbledore. Yes, Dumbledore would be watching him _very_ closely. Tom cursed himself yet again for showing off, giving too much away. He would have to watch his step – he wouldn't get away with ruling by fear while at Hogwarts. Not as blatantly, anyway. He glanced around at the other tables, catching sight of Penny at the Ravenclaw table. She was listening closely to her neighbour, who was chatting away without appearing to pause for breath. Penny glanced up and caught his eye, giving a quick smile. Tom quickly looked back at his own table. _Ravenclaw._ The know-it-alls, one of the older students had said the day before. Better to make links within his own house.

It was a busy day. Rushing from lesson to lesson, trying to find his way around. Trying to impress his teachers, and, even more of a challenge, his fellow students. Working hard enough, being quiet enough, in lessons to make the professors like him, while not being a goody-two shoes. It was a challenge, but he was good at it. Better than he had been at the orphanage. The teachers here didn't know him at all, before he'd learnt how to control what impressions people formed of him.

"Hey, how's it going?" He jumped in surprise. Penny grinned. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." He shrugged, glad that there wasn't anyone else around, and leant back against the wall. Penny leant against the other, dumping her bag by her feet.  
"Looking forwards to potions?" He nodded.  
"It looks interesting." She grinned.  
"Yeah. Hope I don't blow anything up. Where's the rest of your House?"  
"Common Room. I was early."  
"Same. Well, actually, I misjudged how long it'd take to get down here." Tom smirked slightly, but was suspicious. The dungeons were near the hall, which Penny had definitely been down to from her Common room at least twice. He thought it unlikely that she'd just forgotten how long it would take to get downstairs.  
"Anyway, how're you finding it, Riddle?" He hesitated a moment before answering.  
"Brilliant. It's amazing. The portraits talk! And the ghosts..." He stopped short, amazed at how much he'd said without meaning to.  
"Yeah. Except Professor Binns."  
"Who?"  
"History of Magic. Haven't had him yet?" "Tom shook his head. "Well, you'll know what I mean when you've had your first lesson. Dull does not describe it." Tom, much to his own surprise, laughed. He stopped quickly, irritated at himself. He almost never laughed. He was saved from having to make conversation by the arrival of a few of his fellow Slytherin year-mates, who completely ignored the Ravenclaw girl as being beneath their notice.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

"Downey! How many times do I have to tell you?" Slughorn looked very put out. Tom suppressed a sigh. How typical, even among members of a house _renowned_ for their cunning.  
Slughorn was, in his opinion, one of the easiest professors to manipulate, not to mention biased towards Slytherin, and here was one of his classmates managing to completely fail to understand when he was pushing his luck. He didn't understand how after half a year anyone could not know how to judge a situation.  
Slughorn bustled around, berating Downey for not paying attention and being a troublemaker, eventually proclaiming that the only solution was to make his switch places.  
"Now, if you go and sit with Sybil, yes, and you come work here, then we should all be fine..." With his habit of noting where everyone was working, Tom could quite easily work out who that meant would be switching to sit by him.  
"Rooks." He inclined his head ever so slightly.  
"Riddle."  
"There now! Splendid. And if we can return to our cauldrons?" Penny rolled her eyes at the mess Downey had left on the desk.  
"How does he do it?" She hissed across at Tom. "We haven't even started yet!" She began clearing a mysterious gloop off the surface while trying to listen to what the professor was saying. Tom smirked. He'd often wondered the same thing.  
"Not quite certain, yet. I think he must get a special deal at the Apothecary's, though, else he'd never have enough money to pay for all those sweets." Even _with_ his pureblood parents paying for everything, he mentally added. None of his fellow Slytherins seemed to have heard of someone with his father's name, but he was still hopeful. There was plenty of time to find out.

"Nostrils alright?"  
"What?" Tom managed to keep his puzzlement off his face, but not out of his voice.  
"Working next to a filthy Mudblood all lesson. Personally, I find them nauseating." A third-year sat in a chair nearby pulled a face.  
"Shouldn't be allowed in. Half-bloods, well, they're not as bad. But still – Hogwarts should be for the purebloods like us." Tom forced a shrug.  
"Well, it was potions. Couldn't smell anything except the smoke coming off Jones' cauldron." The older student laughed. He had a younger sister in Tom's year, and was often prepared to pass on information – if you knew how to play it, of course. Ask outright, and you got nothing. But a casual remark, the correct amount of praise and respect, and he was a goldmine of hints.  
"See what i mean, though? Jones – Ravenclaw, i assume? Not Slytherin, anyway." Tom nodded. "Right. Mudblood?" Tom nodded again.  
"I think so."  
"Right. Inferior wizard." Tom returned his attention to his essay as the older boy left for Quidditch practice, but couldn't help thinking that Penny had been a lot better to work with than Downey, muggleborn or not.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Tom was in a bad mood. He had finished going through the trophy room. Not a mention. Not one mention of a 'Riddle'. Not one hint to suggest that his father had been at Hogwarts. It was also Christmas Day, and he had been collared by Dumbledore on his way out of the trophy room.  
"Shouldn't be sulking around on Christmas, Tom! Enjoy the present, rather than dwelling on the past."  
There was a kindly twinkle in the man's eye as he said it, but it just made Tom want to punch him. He didn't like being patronised. And to suggest that it was sulking!  
He didn't let on, of course. He never bothered trying to get into Dumbledore's good books, but he definitely didn't want to be in his bad ones either. Instead he allowed himself to be steered out of the hallway to the grounds, where the few other students who had stayed were having a snowball fight. There were two teams.  
"Hey! Riddle! Come help already!" He hesitated for a moment. Penny ran over and dragged him behind a snow barrier. "C'mon, you'll be on our team, right?" She tapped his shirt with her wand, and it turned bright Ravenclaw blue. "Gryffindor v Ravenclaw. They're in red, we're in blue. There're a few Hufflepuffs on either side, mostly theirs! We're pretty outnumbered. Let's go!"

They were all dripping with melted snow when they were called into lunch, laughing and tired. One of the older Ravenclaw students flicked their wand and made an eagle appear from the end. It circled the great hall as they entered, and the teachers applauded. The Gryffindor team pulled faces, swearing revenge if the snow was still around at New Year. Tom smirked as one enthusiastic third year promised to get him back for one in the eye, and wisely chose to not say anything when the girl assumed he was a Ravenclaw, rather than just wearing a blue shirt. Penny gave him a thumbs up when the story was being recounted for the benefit of those teachers who hadn't watched the snowball fight themselves.  
"We did pretty well, hey?" Tom grinned back.  
"Yeah."  
"You'll be on our side for the rematch, right?"  
"'Course. Can't exactly be on the Slytherin team, can I?"  
"What're you planning to do for the rest of the day?" Penny shrugged.  
"Library, probably. A couple of the older students have claimed the common room , and say not to disturb them. Two of the girls in my dorm are having a fat argument at the moment, so that's out, and the boys – well, i don't actually want to know what they're up to, but i think i heard the word 'dungbombs', so I'm steering clear. You?" He shrugged.  
"Read, probably. I have the common room all to myself. Everyone else went home for Christmas. Want to play wizard chess for a bit?" They'd both won a set in their crackers, but he was shocked at himself for suggesting it. Firstly, him asking to spend time with someone?  
Inviting someone into the Slytherin common room?  
A _mudblood_, of all people?

If it got out to the rest of his house, his life would be hell for the next six years.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Tom wandered through the second hand bookstore, pondering whether he could really afford to buy a book just for reading. It would all depend on how many new books they needed for the next year. He had to make the money stretch, after all. He debated for several minutes, then decided he could live without buying the book on Dark Creatures he'd been looking at. It gave him something to do with his summer holidays.  
Leaving the bookshop after ten minutes reading, annoyed at the owner although careful not to show it, he caught sight of a very familiar looking figure. The clothes were different of course, a skirt and shirt, but the red hair was familiar.  
"Penny?" She turned and smiled.  
"Tom! Hey. Window shopping?" He shrugged.  
"Bookstore." He felt the back of his neck warm as he realised that she was looking at the sign behind him. She held up a carrier bag.  
"Library. Coming?"  
"There's a library?" Instantly he cursed how stupid he sounded.  
"Yeah. C'mon, I'll show you."

The library was set back from the main Ally, on a side road. The librarian smiled at them both.  
"Penny, good morning. I was wondering whether you'd be in again today." Penny looked embarrassed.  
"Fraid so, ma'am."  
"I'm amazed you have so much time to read. I certainly didn't when i was your age!" Tom was certain: Penny turned pink. She handed in the books she was carrying, and started browsing.  
"Your first time here?" He nodded. "Ah, well, I'll just need you to fill out a slip then, and we'll get you a library card sorted out. There's a two sickle registration fee, I'm afraid, but other than that..."


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Tom didn't let a sign of his nervousness show. The other boy was older, and would undoubtedly know spells he didn't. If he wasn't careful, the situation could go very badly for him indeed. But there was no worming his way out of this one, not without losing face. Duel time it was, then, and he'd just have to get lucky. There was a glimmer of respect in his opponent's eyes- facing an annoyed sixth year without seeming to be at all concerned was impressive, or just stupid. Nobody thought Tom was stupid. Even the snowball match hadn't marred his reputation. Admittedly, he'd put a definite slant of anti-Gryffindor motivation on the story, which helped. The fact that he'd hit the enemy seeker in the face was an achievement several of the first years found a basis for something approaching hero worship.

He shielded quickly, deflecting a stunning spell. There would be no help from other students, not even the prefects. Only if it got out of hand. He deflected another spell and deftly caught his opponent with a tickling curse. After a few minutes of sparring, the other boy grew impatient, and brought out something new. Tom felt like laughing, because its effect was to create a snake. He _loved_ snakes, and more, they loved _him_. He saw a prefect stand up and move forwards, wand raised. The message was clear: this has progressed beyond the acceptable level. This is a danger, not merely a settling of differences between fellows. Stop.

Tom put his wand in his pocket and crouched, holding out a hand to the snake.  
_Come here, my friend. Come to me, but do not bite._  
It obeyed, as snakes always did. It coiled up his arm, twining between his fingers. He stood again, and caught his opponent's eye. He raised one eyebrow.  
There was a surprised murmur running through the gathered students. The sixth year stepped forwards, wand lowered, argument forgotten. He looked stunned.  
"Who did you say your family was?"


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

"Move it, mudblood."  
"What did you just call me?" Tom bit his lip. It was a common enough scuffle when a muggleborn was stupid enough to get caught up in a group of Slytherins, but he didn't usually recognise the voice.  
"I called you a _mudblood_. Got a problem with that?"  
"No, not really." That got a sneer from the surrounding students. Tom didn't have to look to know that. "After all, heaven knows what issues you're going to have from all that inbreeding." Tom closed his eyes in horror. That was stupid. Merlin, you'd think a Ravenclaw would be bright enough to know when she was outnumbered!  
There was a bang, and a yell. A boy, though, not a girl. He was glad, but had no idea what to do. In theory, he should leave it. Pureblood over mudblood, that was life. But he felt a twinge of guilt at the idea of just leaving Penny to fight it out with the Slytherins.  
He had never, ever, in his life been so glad to see the shadow of a professor appear on the wall of the dungeon. He turned and walked briskly around the corner.  
"_Dumbledore's coming._"  
In a single movement the Slytherins had slipped their wands back into pockets and headed off, one holding a hand over a bleeding nose. Tom hesitated an instant, then followed. He heard footsteps behind him, and breathed a slight sigh of relief. She wasn't going to tattle-tail, so maybe the whole incident would blow over.

"You were watching?" Penny was looking fixedly at the notice board next to him  
"No. I was walking along the corridor, Dumbledore was behind me." Tom pretended to be checking he'd put something in his bag, just in case any of his year mates happened by.  
"So why'd you warn them to get away?"  
"It was obvious. And they're my House. I'm hardly about to rat them out to a Professor over nothing." Penny snorted, flushed with anger.  
"You were watching. I knew it." She stormed off. Tom felt a surge of guilt, but ignored it. He couldn't have done anything any differently, so there was no point getting emotional about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

Tom looked around him in delight. What a place! He'd been suspicious for a while, but this! It was fantastic. He really needed to sit down. The floor rippled, and a chair grew out of the ground. Grinning widely, he sat down heavily. Soft cushions, exactly the right height for him. He didn't like the colour, though, and to his pleasure it changed until it was a deep green. Euphoric, he looked around, wondering what he could do with this space. His own secret room. Well, not quite a room, he supposed. It changed, constantly. The perfect hideaway.  
He thought about it as he finished his work that evening, and an idea occurred to him; a wonderful, brilliant idea.  
_I need records. Old student lists, alphabetical order._  
He stepped through the door. Files filled the walls. Perfect. He headed straight for the 'R' section, and began scanning the folders for something that might tell him about his family.

Tom was delighted that no-one else from Slytherin had stayed behind that Christmas. There was nobody to know he'd been disappearing for practically the whole day, to follow him, to ask what he was up to. He wouldn't tell anyone, either. It was his Christmas secret: the Room of Requirement.  
There hadn't been as much snow that year, but even if there had been a snowball fight, he wasn't sure he'd have joined in. He still had his blue shirt, though. Penny had forgotten to change it back, but he never mentioned it.  
He fell over the package when he got up on Boxing day. It was wrapped in bright paper. A present. A proper present, not just the little gifts the orphanage had doled out – a bar of soap, usually, or a flannel. Hand trembling, he detached the card taped firmly to the top, and dropped it in surprise when he opened it.

'Merry Christmas! Sorry it's late, but I had to wait until I could get to Diagon ally to send it, not having an owl of my own! Hope you had a nice day – is it selfish that i'm glad there won't have been a proper snowball fight? Probably! Oh well!  
Merry Christmas again! See you next term!'

He closed the card and opened it again. The message replayed. Laying it on the bedside table, he turned his attention to the parcel itself. He unwrapped it carefully, not ripping the paper once, and pulled out a writing kit. Two quills, three inks, parchment and envelopes. He picked up one of the quills. It was much nicer than his old cheap one, which was falling apart. Before going down to breakfast, he spent twenty minutes trying to write a suitable thank you note. He struggled, and in the end wasn't very pleased with what he'd written, but couldn't think of anything better. He'd used the colour-changing ink. It was the least practical, but it made him smile. That didn't happen very often. He suspected it would make her laugh, too. He could imagine her deliberately picking one that he would never chose for himself, giggling at her own joke.

_ Thank you.  
Merry Christmas!  
Tom  
P.S. it's not selfish._


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

Tom kicked moodily at the grass. It was wet and windy, and dull, dull, _dull_. Just like every stupid summer holiday to the beach with his stupid orphanage. Everything was so grey, and bland. The only place greyer and blander than the orphanage's holiday retreat was the orphanage itself, but at least there he was only a walk away from his world. He could be out in the morning as soon as chores were done – not that he did any, not since he was little, since he'd found that he could make people _hurt_ – and stride through the grey, dull, bland streets, full of grey, dull, bland people to the Leaky Cauldron. That was better, interesting, more alive, somehow. But even there, he found, wasn't quite far enough from the muggle world.

No, he was only in _his_ world once he was through the brick wall, in Diagon Ally, where everything was bright, and interesting, and real.  
He glared at the sea. All that he could do here was talk to snakes, maybe snatch a few minutes alone to read. He'd been banned from going out of sight to read, because 'he needed to spend time with the other children'. And he couldn't entertain himself the way he'd used to, because Dumbledore, he knew, would be watching. The other children still feared him, and the staff still found him unsettling. He still got his own way, largely, still got left alone, but the knowledge that he could no longer enforce it made him almost afraid.  
"Interfering old sod."


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

Tom never bought his own sweets in Honeydukes; he hoarded the money he was given by the school for his equipment, always careful to spread it out, rather than risk running short. Besides, he didn't need to. Other people bought them for him.

Some was as thanks, for help with a piece of work, for smoothing something over with a teacher, covering up for something. It was best to pay off that kind of debt quickly, because if left, it could be called in when you least expected it. Tom was careful to never need that kind of help. He only gave it.

Some was bribery, really, trying to get on his good side. Rumours abounded that he was descended from Slytherin himself. True rumours, he was certain of it, though he was still desperately hunting for more proof. Proof for himself, though, not for others. Parseltongue was enough for his housemates

Some was paying off, to amend for annoying him. A first year who'd knocked ink over one of his essays, a third year whose cat had left fur and a dead mouse on his bed – they'd pick something up, either from Hogsmede if they were old enough to go, or by owl if they couldn't. Subtly, of course, although admittedly in varying degrees. Some would hand it to him as they walked past, some would owl it to him (he liked that, because he could pretend for a moment that it was someone else, someone outside Hogwarts, sending him something.)

In fact, the only thing Tom himself bought was the odd box of crystallised pineapple. It had taken him less than a term to discover the potion master's favourite treat, and he was careful to occasionally supply a box – at suitable times, of course. Slughorn was so easy to impress, to trick and manipulate. A little flattery, a dose of awe and respect, a small gift. And he was putty. Easy.


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

"Oof!" All the air was knocked out of him as he cannoned into someone coming around the corner. Sat on the floor amid scattered books, some his, some not, he pressed one hand to a new bruise on his skull.  
"Ow…Hey, Riddle…nice to run into you… long time no see…" he pulled a face.  
"Ugh. Get to the infirmary m-ate. You're talking gibberish." He'd covered the slip well, but there was a flash of hurt in those eyes. He was surprised at how guilty that made him feel. She was on her knees before he recovered enough, picking up books and separating them into two piles.  
"So, why the running, Riddle?"  
"…" She threw his quill at his head.  
"C'mon, Riddle. Why running?"  
"Um…there's a _slightly drunk_ fourth year who keeps trying to catch me under mistletoe today. _Don't laugh!_" She didn't, but he could see her shoulders shake with the effort. "Anyway, Rook, why were _you _running?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.  
"What, you don't think _I'm _fleeing someone with mistletoe?" She grinned. "Nah, had a…discussion…with some Slytherin pig outside the library."  
"Hey!"  
"What? I didn't call you a pig. I said she was. You going to sit there all day?" He flushed, and scrambled to his feet. "There. Those are yours."  
"Thanks." For an awkward moment they stood in the middle of the corridor, then Penny hefted her bag and began to walk off. She froze.  
"Riddle… what have you done?"  
"What? Nothing! What's wrong?"  
"I can't walk." They both glanced down at the same time. Slowly, they both looked up, eyes meeting in the middle, faces wearing identical shocked expressions. Tom stared at the mistletoe on the ceiling for a moment, shaking his head.

"No…oh, no…"  
"Yeah. Ewww…Tom, how long are you prepared to stand here?"  
"Um, till the end of the holidays is fine by me."  
"Same goes." There was a pause. "Do you know anything that might work?"  
"No! Don't try _anything_. Trust me, I've seen people try. The only chance you have is to avoid getting caught in the first place…"  
"Right. Um. Way out, way out…"  
"You've already suggested it. Wait until term starts, when they'll have to get it to let us go so the corridor is free!" He was close to panicking. Whoever invented mistletoe had died too peacefully.  
"Yeah, except." She swallowed, hard. "That only works if they _will_. And, um, I have a feeling that _this_ is the work of de Vries. We've just had the good luck to get caught while she's _not_ here."  
They both considered the horror of being spotted by Danielle, gossip monger to the entire school, and took a deep breath at the same time.  
"One kiss. Do you know if it has to be, um, on the mouth?" He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, certain that his skin was scarlet. Penny shrugged back, then tried pecking him on the cheek. They tried to move their feet.  
"Nope." She was practically glowing with embarrassment.  
"Okay, let's get this over with."  
"Yeah. I won't mention this _at all_ if you won't."  
"Agreed."


	12. Chapter 12

**12**

He kept any trace of feeling off his face as the door swung closed. There was no bag being unpacked on the work surface next to his, no one sat on the stool next to him. He ought to be rejoicing, he knew that: no suffering through a filthy mudblood stench all lesson today. Because she was never late to lessons, especially not potions. They were both always early for potions, though he never thought about why.

But he wasn't rejoicing. He felt annoyed. Disappointed. Sure, they'd completely avoided each other for the last few days, but still. One brief mistletoe encounter? How did _that_ justify skipping potions? She'd just call attention, people would think that something was going on – except, of course, he knew they wouldn't, because there was nothing going on, and no way in hell there would be. But he was still angry.

Then he noticed that her friend, he didn't know her name, was talking quietly to Slughorn. And the potions master didn't seem angry, he was shaking his head sadly. He felt the first stirrings of unease.

"So, how come the Mudblood, Rooks, wasn't in potions? Thought she was a complete goody two shoes."  
"Maybe she's in the infirmary. Someone got her with a jinx or something. Wish I knew who." Tom kept quiet, just shrugging. He couldn't make himself smile, though.  
"Shut up! Shut _up_, you-!" Even Tom jumped. The Slytherins turned to look at the Ravenclaw girl, too surprised even to make the usual taunts about her thick glasses.  
"What was that?" She balled up her fists and glared.  
"Shut up about Penny! She had to go home! They got a telegram yesterday."  
She stormed off. A couple of the other Slytherins raised eyebrows at each other, not understanding what it meant, and laughed about it. For a brief moment, he wanted to tell them, to explain why you _just didn't_ laugh at people getting telegrams, why you'd rush home if you got one, if you could, but knew they wouldn't care.  
Just one less muggle in the world.

'Penny,  
I heard about your dad. I'm so sorry.  
Tom'


	13. Chapter 13

**13**

He fled even more often to the safety of Diagon Ally than ever that summer, running as fast as he could to the doors of the Leaky Cauldron, one eye on the sky the whole time.  
A few times he was collared, and asked where he'd been all day. He'd tell the truth, just – he'd been to the library to read, he'd been looking in the shops, but _of course_ hadn't bought anything.

There were no complaints about the beach that year, even from him. It was better than London, though not as good as his world. He wished dearly that he had enough money to rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron until term began again.  
Wandering around on the beach, a plan came to him. There were a few of his yearmates who thought themselves to be his 'friends', though he was careful to keep them at arm's reach, even if they didn't realise it. They wrote to him, of their family gatherings, of meeting up to play quidditch… Why not visit someone?

He wrote letters back, as usual, and made sure to complain about the stupid, stupid beach, and how he was having to look after the little ones – _to make up for not being there during the term, would you believe_ – carefully making it clear how demeaning this all was for a Slytherin. Soon enough, he got a reply from Abraxas, casually saying that there was a spare room available at the family house, and he'd be more than welcome  
'-and I've assured mother and father that you are entirely of a sensible mind-set when it comes to muggles and mudbloods, merely forced by circumstance to associate with muggles, so they're perfectly happy for you to stay. I'll meet you in the Leaky Cauldron on Saturday?'  
There were no arguments from the orphanage staff. The more children who could be out of London, the better.

He spent some of his precious money in Diagon Ally buying a small thank you gift for Malfoy's parents. He didn't try to get anything fancy. They were old blood, old money. But a little box of smart chocolates, at a ridiculous price, just enough to earn a reputation of 'a polite boy'.  
It worked, of course.

He'd never seen such a grand house, not even Hogwarts. The Great Hall, with its enchanted ceiling, was bigger, of course, than any room in the mansion, the grounds more extensive. But there was far more luxury than in the castle, opulent, everything antique, well crafted, half of it irreplaceable. Tom Riddle, unusually, felt small. He covered it up, admired everything, but didn't gush, refused to act overawed. And he decided, there and then, that when _he_ was older, this was the kind of house he was going to have.


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

Sat at the Slytherin table in the Great hall, waiting for the sorting to begin, Tom let his gaze casually flit around the room. His year mates would assume that he was just having a look around, checking out whether there were any new staff (he'd already done that. New care of magical creatures teacher.) They wouldn't notice that he carefully checked the length of the Ravenclaw table, or if they did assume that he was just absent mindedly glancing. On his first sweep he missed her, and he had to force himself not to tense up, lest the girl sat next to him notice.

Then someone leant forwards, having been sat back to talk to someone further along the table, and the red hair swung forwards. She happened to glance up, and apparently absent mindedly looked over the other three tables. Her gaze rested on him briefly, and she nodded slightly. He tilted his head ever so slightly in response, then turned his full attention back to the conversation going on around him. That was the last item off of his checklist for the return to school, showing no external sign of his relief. Even if she was muggleborn, he didn't particularly want her to have died. A little too close to home. He vaguely wondered whether she had stayed at a friend's house. It was much more likely that Ravenclaws would understand, given the degree of halfblood and mudblood students in the house. Not like Slytherin, where there were only a few halfbloods, all of whom but himself lived their lives in the wizarding world.  
And of those? None openly admitted to being halfblood. He had made it his business privately to be certain of everyone's blood status, and had carefully made it clear to everyone that he had no way of knowing his own lineage - yet every single member of his house was certain he was pureblood. And while he didn't believe it to be true, he saw no reason to correct them.


	15. Chapter 15

15

There was some kind of commotion outside the Slytherin common room. A confused looking first year stumbled through, and after a few minutes finally babbled out what was going on. Some _idiot_ mudblood wanted to get into the common room and was tapping her foot outside. There was an amused chuckle from several of the sofas in the room. A couple of people suggested letting "it" in, and then explaining why, exactly, a mudblood ought to remember who was superior. Tom listened quietly, well aware that he was the one who's decision would be followed. As the suggestions grew wilder, he intervened quietly.  
"I suspect that even the slowest professor here would suspect _something_, Downey, if whoever it is turns up in the hospital wing with anything more than…minor…injuries." _But you wouldn't, empty headed thing that you are._  
"Well, what are we going to do, then? Just _ignore_ the fact that some mudblood wants to get into the common room?"

"You could try asking why." Tom wanted to bury his head in his hands. _You- you stupid excuse for a Ravenclaw!_ He arched an eyebrow instead, keeping his tone cold.  
"First, I'll ask how you got in, unless someone let you."  
"The password is obvious. I – I'm in a hurry." He realised that her eyes were red, clearly from crying. His opinion of her intelligence dropped another level. Letting Slytherins see you when you were weak was unwise. Letting Slytherins see you if you were muggleborn was unwise, come to that. "I need to contact someone outside the castle. Now. I figured, if anyone's got a way of communicating that's quicker than an owl, it'll be a Slytherin."  
"And why would we help you, you-"  
"Filthy mudblood, I know. Because, Downey, I'm going to stand here until you_ do_. Stinking up your nice green common room. Maybe I'll even _redecorate_ for you. Some muggle pictures would look _lovely_ in here. I'll even use a permanent sticking charm for you." She was shaking, from anger or fear Tom wasn't sure. There was a stunned silence. Nobody could quite believe that they were being threatened in their own common room. Tom met her eyes briefly, and realised that she really wasn't going to leave. He wanted to shake his head at her, tell her that she wasn't getting any help and that she should just leave. Instead he heaved a sigh.  
"And what could be so important as to result in you being up after hours, running to the Slytherin common room to ask for help rather than going to a professor, hm? Not up to anything illegal, I would hope." He kept his voice mocking and disdainful.  
"I would have gone to a professor, but the only one who'd listen is busy. Apparently his house's common room has mysteriously suffered some kind of magical infestation, and he has to sort it out." She looked pointedly at the book lying on the nearest table. "Which I'll add to my reasons, thank you. I _won't_ tell Dippet, or Dumbledore, that you lot are responsible for that." She had them there. Enough people had known about the plot – himself included – that the whole house would be severely punished for not preventing it, even though only a few had actually been part of the prank. He rubbed his temples, not faking.  
"This is giving me a headache. Unfortunately, I suspect that it might actually be quicker to just get you in contact with – whoever – than to make you leave." There was a flicker of a smile. That had been her plan, of course.  
"Given that I've been taking extra DADA lessons, probably. All-body shield charm. Hasn't worn off yet." He rolled his eyes.  
I noticed, given that at least three people have tried to hex you so far with no effect." He waved a hand. "Just – ugh, someone just get her her contact method and get her out of here while we still have a chance of getting rid of the stench." He could feel the tension in the room, slight confusion. Was this a trap? A joke? Part of a big plan? Caving in? Being kind to a mudblood? He wasn't sure himself. He'd have to think of something, the instant the door closed behind the idiot redhead.

A second year got to her feet, looking completely bewildered, and picked a tin up from the mantelpiece over the fire and held it out.  
"Floo powder. You'll, um, have to pay." She glanced around, nervous, and Tom gave a slight nod. The girl's back straightened. "Well, get a move on!" Penny walked quickly over, took a small handful and threw it into the fireplace, muttering an address. She stuck her head in, then almost immediately pulled it out, slamming both hands down on the marble fireplace.  
"No!" From where he was sitting, Tom could see nothing but rubble in the flicker of the fire. His heart sank, guessing what the matter was. She threw more Floo powder in, giving another address, and this time relaxed immediately. Though she was mostly in the way, a room was visible occasionally, and a child turning towards the voice in surprise.

"Will!"  
"Penny!"  
"You're – you and mother, you're both okay?"  
"Yeah. I was at school, mum was working. We're at auntie's."  
"I know, I'm, oh gods you're alive."  
"Are you – are you going to come visit?"  
"I don't know, I'm sorry…" She twitched suddenly, flinching. The flames were losing their green tinge. "I'm sorry, Will, I've got to go. I just wanted to check you were okay. I'll write, first thing, okay?"  
"Okay…tell me more about the goblins? Please?"  
"Will do. I'll send you chocolate too, soon. I promise. Ow! Got to go. Don't tell auntie I – well, that my head appeared in the fire. Promise."  
"I won't."  
"Bye." She pulled back and sat where she was for a moment, shoulders hunched.  
"They're alive, oh god, they're alive, they're okay, they're alive…" Tom gave it thirty seconds, and cleared his throat once to remind her that she was relying on group shock to prevent getting hexed. Penny took a deep breath, stood up and turned around, swiping her hand across her eyes.

"Right." For a brief moment, Tom admired her composure. He almost apologised, knowing that whatever happened next would not be pleasant.  
"So, what on earth was that about?"  
"That was my baby brother. He's seven. Our house – it got destroyed. I didn't know if he and our mother were…"  
"Good grief. We don't want to listen to a life story. Please, the smell is getting to me."  
Tom silently thanked whoever had spoken.  
"Perhaps, perhaps not." De Vries, was smirking. Penny's jaw tightened briefly. Tom silently cursed her. "You don't owe us only money, for the Floo, you know."  
"I'd guessed."  
"Well, seeing as you just had that _charming_ conversation at our expense, perhaps we should know a little more." She waved a little bottle in the air. Veriteserum. Even Tom was yet to find out where she got such volumes of the potion from, but he knew that she always carried some. Penny sighed, but held out a hand. Tom didn't interfere. He could guess where this was going. Information was useful. And at least it wouldn't land her in the hospital wing. Yet. No one spoke, but enough people understood to pay attention. De Vries was in her element, and they left her to it.

"So…just the little brat and your muggle mum, hmmm? What about your dear old daddy? Done a runner? Hit the drink?"  
"He died last year. His plane was shot down. He was in the air force." Penny's voice was quiet, resigned, and flat. There was a pause while the information was filed. _Not much you can do with that one. Well, there is. But not much variety. Not much you can get away with,_ either_. And I bet most of you don't even know what the air force is_.  
"How very upsetting. Did you _cry_ like a little baby?"  
"Of course I cried. When I got the letter. And after the funeral. Not when I got home. Before the funeral. Mum- she needed someone to look after her. So did Will." _Again, not much you can do with that._ Danielle was getting annoyed.  
"Let's see…well, we're covering boggarts in defence soon, aren't we. A little advanced thought wouldn't harm, now would it? Greatest fear."  
"I – I'm not sure. Seeing my family dead, I think."  
"Well, perhaps one more question for this lovely little bonding session. Worst memory?" There was a pause, in which Penny was obviously trying not to answer.  
"Last summer. There was an air raid. Mum was at work. We were in the Anderson out back. It – it collapsed. Not a bomb, just detritus, fell on it. It was badly made. None of us were good at that kind of stuff, and we couldn't get any help. Will and I were sitting on one of the bunks. Charlie was looking for something. It – it crushed him. We sat in the dark for four hours, Will and me and Charlie's b-body, till they dug us out." She swallowed, hard. _Just let her go, de Vries. What else are you going to ask?_  
"I suppose this one is rather predictable…but for traditions sake. Who've you got a crush on?" There was a longer pause, in which Penny seemed to panic, then she slumped.  
"Well, have to confess that I've adored you since first year. The way you do your hair, the colour of your eyes, your way with words…oh wait. Guess the veritiserum has worn off." With a brisk nod, she walked away, dropping a handful of coins onto the table as she went past. Tom was slightly impressed. She'd stunned the Slytherins, _again_. Admittedly, most of those in the room weren't the brightest of the lot, but even so. The door clicked shut. De Vries, he was pleased to note, had gone bright red.


	16. Chapter 16

16

Tom rolled to avoid the bludger, and darted off in the other direction, weaving between the other players. Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw. It was only a training match, a friendly shared practice. The stands were still relatively full, though. It was a sunny day, the two teams were well matched, and watching quidditch was a fun way to while away an afternoon. He hovered, scanning for the snitch. A glimmer of gold caught his eye, and he shot after it. Another bludger forced him off course, and he could hear the watching Slytherins booing the offending beater. Tom ignored them, returning to his vigil for the snitch. The Ravenclaw captain shouting at his own seeker distracted him.  
"What are you _doing_! At least try to look for the snitch!" Rising steadily upwards to get a better view of the field, Tom glanced sideways to make a sarcastic comment. He hesitated. She was swaying on her broom, staring fixedly down, apparently utterly oblivious to her surroundings.  
"Hey! In a match, here! We want some _competition_ at some point today, please!" There was no response. "Rooks? Penny?" Three things happened in close succession; she jerked and slid sideways off of her broom, a spell went whistling past Tom's head, and a bludger smashed through her broom, forcing Tom to swerve once again. Without thinking he aimed his own broom straight down and dived, grabbing onto the back of Penny's robes to stop her fall. It was an ungainly landing; he'd only reached her a couple of meters off the ground. The supervising teacher was with them in an instant, checking for broken bones while the rest of Ravenclaw team landed in a rush.

"Nothing broken that I can see…we'd better get you to the hospital wing…hello?" Very slowly, Penny turned her head to look. Her eyes were rolled back in their sockets, showing only the whites.  
"I – " She was shivering, despite the sun.  
"What's wrong with her?"  
"Is she having some kind of fit?"  
"It's alright. It won't last long." Her voice was distant, monotonous.  
"How do you know that?" The Ravenclaw team shot him an annoyed look. Apparently this wasn't the kind of thing you should be asking in this situation.  
"I just…do…I always do." She shuddered, and the teacher took charge again.  
"Right, give her some air. Come on, all of you, step back. Riddle! I said – ah. Right. Your leg…" Tom glanced down. His ankle was sitting at a decidedly unnatural angle, and now that he noticed it, it was absolute agony. He gritted his teeth. "No, you stay still! You'll only make it worse." _Yes, but that also means that I'm still sat with a mudblood leaning against me. I know that isn't my fault, but this really is not ideal._ His leg was sufficiently painful that he was glad when she loudly insisted.

They were carried up to the hospital wing on stretchers. The accompanying teammates and followers were quickly sent away, while several hastily summoned teachers scurried in past them. Tom's ankle was set in an instant, but he was instructed to stay in the infirmary overnight to ensure he was entirely healed. He lay still and listened the quiet muttering of the assorted teachers.  
"No, she's definitely seeing."  
"-but how could we not have noticed-"  
"Well, she received full marks in divination last year."  
"-but she isn't _speaking_."  
"No. What, you think you only see the future when you prophecy? What about crystal balls and the like? She's seeing. Watching something happen. She's not prophesising." Eventually they left, declaring that rest was the best thing for her. Dumbledore paused next to his bed.  
"How're you doing, Tom?"  
"Well enough, sir. I've been told to stay overnight."  
"What exactly happened?"  
"I'm not certain, sir. She was swaying on her broom, then she just fell off. There was a bludger, but she'd already fallen, sir."  
"Well, good night, Tom."

Despite instructions to sleep, Tom found that he couldn't. His ankle was still painful, in a dull way, just enough to keep him awake. He asked for something to read, and was given the previous day's daily prophet. He'd already read it, but found the crossword and distracted himself with that. He hadn't realised he was muttering until a quiet voice piped up from the neighbouring bed.  
"It's an anagram."  
"What is?"  
"The clue. It's an anagram. I did it yesterday."  
"Anagram?"  
"The letters of the answer are all jumbled up in the clue."  
He looked at it for a moment, then it clicked. He grinned.  
"Done. Thanks." There was no reply, and he looked up. "Rooks?"

She was still unconscious when he left the hospital wing the next day, and when he returned to lessons the day after. After a while the explanation filtered through the school. The bludger _had_ clipped her after all, catching the back of her head before ploughing through her broom. When he thought about it, Tom could remember her spinning in mid-air for no apparent reason. He'd assumed that it had just been him, as he avoided the bludger himself. What he was positive about was that he'd felt a spell miss, whatever the rumours in the Slytherin common room were. Whoever had fired it – his money was on de Vries, or possibly her somewhat defensive admirer Skeeter, It seemed unlikely that the boy would disrupt his own house team, though. – had fired a little too late. Luckily for them all. Dippet would not have been happy to have one of his students plummet to serious injury due to a rather nasty piece of fairly advanced magic.

The empty desk in potions was what annoyed him the most over those weeks. They'd slipped into the habit of picking up ingredients for each other from the cupboard, sometimes preparing double quantities and trading them. Slughorn liked getting them to work in pairs on more advanced potions, and though Tom was good at potions, even he had to admit that Penny was better. Especially at the more advanced things Slughorn got them to work on in his Potions Club. He peered into his cauldron. It _looked_ right, but he wasn't certain that it was.  
"Excellent work, Tom." He looked up at Slughorn and smiled.  
"Thank you, sir." If the potion's master thought it looked alright, he wasn't going to correct him.  
"So, Tom…" He could guess what was coming next, and smiled.  
"You wouldn't be about to ask me what I could smell, would you, sir?" Slughorn chuckled.  
"Rather cheeky of me, I know."  
"I'm afraid I'd rather not, sir. Personal information and all that."

_And all I can smell is the usual smell of a potions lesson_.


	17. Chapter 17

17

He didn't think. That was the problem, he knew. He hadn't thought. Not at the time. Thinking had not come until later, and now he lay awake staring at the green canopy above him, unable to _stop_ thinking.

Tom Riddle planned. Tom Riddle was always in control, one step removed and several more ahead. Tom Riddle considered _everything_; every word, every movement, every single thing he did, every angle anything could be seen from, every consequence, every advantage, calculating it all in a fraction of a second into exactly what he wanted to portray.  
Tom Riddle did _not_ act rashly, or compulsively. Tom Riddle did not show emotion, except when it was in his interests to. Tom Riddle was not a boy who wore his heart on his sleeve. Tom Riddle was not a boy generally believed to _have_ a heart by those who knew him best, including himself.  
Tom Riddle was currently considering whether he would, really, be best off jumping off of the Astronomy tower.  
Because Tom Riddle hadn't thought. And now he wasn't quite so certain about anything.

It had most certainly not been planned. He had simply gone to search for information of a sensitive nature to do with certain dark magic. The kind of information that he had to pick out from the defensive books, for now, working backwards, because even being a polite young prefect, who had only had one detention, and that a whole class one, the type of book he wanted access to was off limits. For now. He was returning from the Restricted Section to his table when a book nearly fell on his head.  
"Oops! Sorry." He held the book out, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He wasn't used to feeling uncomfortable. She took it, still apologising, then trailed off.  
"What?" He was staring, he realised. Staring and half wishing he could just stay like that, staring, for the rest of his life. She shrugged, apologised _again_, and made to move past him, to return to the pile of work she had to catch up on. Tom felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean, being crushed by some surrounding pressure, and suddenly the pressure broke him. He didn't think. He just took a half step sideways so that she almost walked into him, slid his arms around her, and kissed her.

He wasn't thinking then, not really. He was aware. He was aware of the book, caught between them. He could feel the bookshelf pressing into his arms, and the way her hair tangled around his fingers. But he wasn't thinking. He was just feeling. And in the back of his mind, two voices tried to get through to him. One was possibly his, possibly not, and it hissed '_mudblood_'. The other was the matron at the orphanage, echoing from a long ago overheard conversation, scolding an older boy for overstepping boundaries with a young lady '_it's not – well, it's not what nice young boys do_'.  
_Well, I'm not a nice boy_. It wasn't a thought. It was just knowledge.  
He pulled away, and she spoke. If she had said 'Tom', it would have been fine, he thought later. Or 'we're in the library', or maybe even 'what do you think you're doing?' But somehow, what she said was worse.  
"Riddle?"  
Because that was when he started thinking again.

And he thought _stupid_, and _reckless_, and _library! could have been seen_. He thought _never live it down_, _what if she tells someone_, and _what do I do now?_ But most of all he thought _I wish she had stayed_, and remembered the feeling of his arms around her, the distant memory of her leaning in to kiss _him_ under the mistletoe, and the scent of _potions-and-books-and-a-hint-of-chocolate-and-a-to uch-of-perfume_ which all added up in his mind to _Penny_.


	18. Chapter 18

18

They skirted around each other the next time they met. Tom alternated between telling himself it was just due to being in a lesson, and angrily reminding himself that he really shouldn't expect – or hope for – anything else.

It hurt.

She stayed behind at the end of the lesson, to speak to Slughorn about the lessons she'd missed. He was halfway to the next lesson before he realised he was gritting his teeth hard enough to be uncomfortable.  
Not so long ago, she would have just asked him. Even long ago, back when she missed a few days to go to her father's funeral. She'd plopped down at the desk next to him, still a little pale, still quieter than before, and just spoken. Not prodded him, not checked he was listening. Just asked, 'so, what did I miss?', knowing that he would answer. Detached, of course. Being civil. But even then, she'd known he would answer.  
The more reasonable part of his brain gradually reasserted itself, and pointed out that there was quite a difference between two lessons back in third year, and missing four weeks in fourth year, not to mention the additional things she'd missed in the weekly potions club.

It was the first Hogsmede trip she was back for when she next spoke to him properly. He was quietly buying some pineapple – Slughorn's birthday was coming up – when he heard her friend complaining about the weather behind him.  
"I know, it's horrible today. Look, Myrtle, why don't you join the other's at Madame Puddifoot's?"  
"You hate it there." She chuckled.  
"I know. Eugh. I don't know how you lot stand it. But I want to send some chocolate home to Will, and there's no point you trailing through Hogsmede getting soaked for the sake of _not_ making me sit in a café that makes me feel ill. Go on. I'll wander around the shops for a bit, then go back. I have a mountain of work to catch up on."  
"Well, if you're sure…"  
"Myrtle. I'm fine. I'm not going to collapse or anything. Go on! I don't need babysitting." Tom finished paying, but couldn't quite resist waiting to keep an eye on her. Whatever she told the Ravenclaws, it was still difficult to get the image of her unconscious in the hospital wing for weeks – even the healers from St Mungo's had said it was better not to move her – out of his mind. It was also very easy to imagine her keeling over suddenly.

She smiled at him as she walked past, and he was almost annoyed at himself for quite how happy that made him. He sought for something to say. Anything.  
"How're you finding the catch up?" He mentally kicked himself. What a stupid thing to say. She shrugged.  
"Mixed. Part of the problem is just the volume of work. I don't have time to read everything I should. I've got extensions for some things, and there are a few bits that I've been told not to bother with."  
"A Ravenclaw, not doing work they're supposed to have done?"  
"I know. I can scarcely believe the nerve of them." She grinned. "I'll do it over the summer instead. Well. I will if I can get a teacher to put a disguise spell on some books for me."  
"Why?"  
"Riddle. Muggleborn. Staying with relatives outside London. No access to Diagon Ally. No access to library. Spell books in a muggle house probably not the best idea." He fell into step with her as she made her way along the street. They walked in silence for a minute, while Tom searched frantically for something to say.  
"Are you going back to the castle?" He hadn't been planning to, but he had nothing else to do in Hogsmede, so he just shrugged and nodded. It occurred to him that this would all be rather hard to explain to any of his fellow Slytherins if they were spotted. He also realised that he didn't particularly care.

They hit an uneasy pause in the conversation, and the silence lengthened into awkwardness. They trudged up the path and had almost reached the castle before she spoke again.  
"Actually, are you busy? I'm kind of stuck with the potions for this week, and all the copies of the book Slughorn recommends are out of the library…"  
"Of course. I'll fetch my copy." He did his best not to let his sudden delight show. On the way to the Slytherin common room, it was all he could do not to run. She was talking to him. She was asking him for help. _So, she's not angry. Is she?_ Doubt began to set in on the way back from his dormitory to the library. Perhaps she was angry, but was just not thinking about it. Or maybe she just wasn't freaking out about it as much as he was.

But whatever the reason, she was watching the doorway and smiled when he walked in. He smiled back, not even checking if there was anyone to see.  
Almost as soon as they sat down to work, he noticed she was blushing.

_Probably not angry, then._


	19. Chapter 19

19

Tom leant against the wall of the Room of Requirement. It was empty; he didn't particularly want anything. Just a space to stand, to have a moment to tremble and be angry and maybe even a little scared. A moment to collect himself, to remember that hexing his fellow Slytherins over a mudblood would be foolish.  
Besides, Dumbledore was furious enough. They would be punished. But probably not as much as he felt they deserved.

It was magic that Tom didn't know – the kind that none of them should have known. Maybe it was dark magic, the type that was really banned, rather than simply complex advanced stuff that they weren't about to teach at a school. _Magic that can reach into your mind, take your thoughts and memories. Magic that can share them, let everybody see what should stay inside your head._  
He even felt a little guilty for being glad that they'd gone for worst memories, not those that could cause the most humiliation. Because neither of them would have been able to bluff away quite that many stolen moments.

The first had been expected. After all, whichever of the students had cast the spell had known what to pry for. De Vries' tactics were paying off, as far as the Slytherins were concerned. Except that none of them had lived through the sirens, cowered in a shelter, wondering if this time the world would end… Tom shuddered.  
It had been a strange experience, feeling someone else's mind pushed into yours, seeing their past through their eyes, re-living what they had along with them. _At least you all suffered too. _ Somehow, it was impossible to stop seeing. Everything was vague, superimposed upon their surroundings, slightly transparent. But no matter how you blinked, or rubbed your eyes, or tried to step away, you couldn't seem to break it.

_Sitting on the lower of two bunk beds, a small child curled by your side. He's shaking, and you wrap one arm around him, because he is your little brother and he is scared and oh gods you wish there was something, anything you could do but you can't because what can anyone do against _this_? So you just try to keep him quiet because if he starts crying I don't think I can take it. He dozes off. It's the early hours of the morning, and the memory of carrying him from the house while someone sprints to the end of the garden to open the shelter intrudes, flashing briefly through the mind. The bed creaks as the third person shifts, and she – I – we – turn to look. He gives a weak smile.  
"You alright?" A faint smile in return.  
"Just about."  
"You should sleep too." A laugh, quiet and hollow. In the pause after, the noise from outside filters through.  
"I don't think I could. Besides, you're not asleep."  
"I hope mum's alright." She – I – close my eyes briefly, searching for anything that would give an answer, but it doesn't work like that. It never has.  
"I don't know either. The one time I'd like to know…" He watches expectantly, and there's a moment of affection for this brother who knows when to be quiet, when she needs to just talk and talk about things he doesn't understand because maybe if she talks it will make sense. But this silence stretches, and he is worried.  
"Doesn't it always, I don't know, help? Knowing what's coming." She shakes her head, a dizzying sensation for the trapped onlookers, who can see the world shifting when they aren't moving their heads.  
"Once I see it, it's set in stone. It's like – I don't know. Like reading a book. Once you know how it ends, when you read it again you can see where it leads. When I see something, whatever I do leads to that – because if not, I wouldn't have seen it." He stares at the floor for a moment.  
"D'you…have you ever seen stuff for one of us?" She stares blankly at the wall.  
"Dad. Dad's going to crash. I don't know when. But he's going to – suddenly stop." She can't quite bear to say die. "And there's nothing I can do."  
He stands, restless, and wanders across the small space – too small, but don't think don't think don't remember how you may be here for hours on end not knowing what you'll find outside – to stand by the other bed and look at her.  
"Is that what's been keeping you up? Dad? You haven't slept properly all week." She hesitates.  
"Some of it. And the old one. You know." And there's that strange moment where a memory within a memory blots everything out again, but this one is stronger, overpowering. It's dark. Smoke is filling the air, catching at the back of her throat. Screaming, and she knows that it is her own voice. There are other voices, talking but distant, hard to catch. The flicker of fire, and pain. Pain that tears through everything, fear and grief and hope and leads into nothingness.  
She shakes her head again to dispel it.  
"You know what it is, don't you?"  
"Yes. You do too."  
"You're really messed up, you know that, little sis?"  
"I'm a few minutes younger, Charlie. Not that little." He sticks his tongue out at her.  
"Whatever. I won't let it happen. Promise." She sighs, because he sounds so certain, so determined. But what has been seen is set in stone.  
"You won't be there. I don't know where you are. I don't know when it is. But I will burn, and you will not be there to save me, Charlie." There's no fear. Just an aching numbness, where she has pushed the fear away to keep herself from madness. And then there is terror – a sudden blank dread that something is wrong something is wrong something –  
She looks up, at her brother turning with a smile to hold out some stockpiled chocolate to her, and the fear makes everything stand out, sharp and bright.  
"Charlie!"  
And the world ends.  
The dust settles, and she reaches out. Her hand meets metal – no oh no no oh no please no – and Will is screaming and she fumbles for the lantern she knows is hooked onto the end of the bed but can't find it and the fear is choking her and light blooms from nowhere, and she hates it - because why couldn't I protect us?- and she looks down and there's his head, eyes open and she tells herself for a moment that it's okay, it's fine, he made it but she knows she's lying and she looks further and she knows that he's not okay, it's not fine because there is no way that anyone could be alive like that and he's gone and he can't be but he is.  
And she screams too, and the light disappears because she can't bear it and they both scream until they can't anymore, and she has one arm around each brother, the live and the dead, and when she can't scream anymore she just cries._

Some of the watchers had screamed too. Not all of them were Slytherins. A few from other houses had been caught up in the spell, and even reeling from the not-mine-but-in-my-head memory he was surprised by that. It seemed too sloppy.  
But whoever is responsible for this spell is determined to find as much pain as he or she can, or is out of control of their own magic.

_ She's standing in a street, glaring.  
"You leave my baby brother alone, understood?"  
"What's it to you, witch?" She raises an eyebrow.  
"What?"  
"Oh, stop pretending. We all know you're a freak."  
"What, you really think I'm a witch? Magic isn't real." But she's afraid, she knows they suspect, knows that there will be trouble, but Will was angry and scared and doesn't see that he has to ignore them because they're right but sooner or later he'll say the wrong thing and then they'll know, not suspect, and then they really will be scared.  
"Besides, if I was a witch, I'd just turn you all into frogs for hurting my little brother." The thought floats across her mind – I wish I could.  
But they're angry, and they're scared, and she's the part of that they can do something about and now she's running, not looking back because she knows that all three are bigger and stronger and faster so she's just trying because maybe they'll get bored of running and leave her alone but then there's a hand on her shoulders and an ankle in front of her shin and she's falling and she lands awkwardly and there's a crack and she knows she can't run now even if she wasn't surrounded. So she just reminds herself again and again not to let any magic out, not to show them that they're right, and then she just tries to limp home with a broken leg and reminds herself that a few bruises aren't too bad, and that she's lucky, really. But then her weight goes on the ankle and she sways, and she doesn't mean to but it's like being a little girl again and the magic just comes, and she's home. Will is asleep upstairs, thankfully, and her mother is out, and she doesn't remember there being anybody nearby so maybe no one saw. She wipes the blood from a split lip off of her face, wondering how you deal with a broken ankle, when the doorbell goes. She ignores it, but then the person shouts out and she recognises her head of year and she groans but limps back to the door, because of course they know she's here.  
She's polite, but inside she seethes because he's obviously not a regular person, and what if someone saw the man in a cloak? Then he fixes her ankle and bruises with a wave of a wand, talks for a while, and reluctantly leaves, unsatisfied with the excuses she's made.  
Then she deliberately falls down the stairs so that she gets bruises back and twists her ankle – she can't quite face re-breaking it – because if she's walking around tomorrow totally healed then they'll know they were right._

There's hardly time to draw breath before new memories are appearing, fragmented now, and Tom decides that whoever is responsible is out of control.

_Sitting next to her twin, rocking back and forth, back and forth, staring out of the window at the moon, shaking, woken by the dreams and the thoughts and the shattering of a glass on a table for no reason but my own fear.  
"What's wrong with me?"  
He shrugs, helpless._

_She sits on the stairs, watching the window. A figure appears and she leaps to her feet, running to open the door before they knock. The tall man jumps in surprise, and gives her a puzzled look as she holds a finger to her lips.  
"You can't come in. Mum and dad will go crazy. Come back at six. They're going out." He is puzzled, but she knows who he is. Not why he's there. But she knows that this person in the funny hat and cloak will help. And she isn't afraid. _

And then, thankfully, Dumbledore arrived, pale with fury and breaking the spell and turning on them all in rage, and Tom is so glad to see the old wizard. They sit in a room for hours while the professors piece together what had happened, and gradually people are dispatched as it becomes clear that they didn't cast the spell, were merely caught up in it.

He stared into the darkness of the Room of Requirement and shuddered.

A few hours later the door opened and someone else crept in. For once, he didn't even bother with the aloof façade, and just put his arms around her and let her cry.


	20. Chapter 20

20

Heart thudding in his chest, Tom waited until he was sure that all the girls had left the bathroom. He slipped inside, walking quickly. Rationally, he knew it would make more sense to wait until Christmas, when the castle was half empty and he'd be assured of time, but it was too long. He had to find out if he was right, as soon as he could. He wasn't quite sure where to find it, but he knew it would be somewhere around the bathroom.  
The Chamber of Secrets.  
Sensationalist legend.  
False.

Five years he'd been searching for this place. First, just reading up on the legend, following the wisp of a story heard in his first term. Then, gradually, painstakingly, seeking out hints and clues. Sometimes despairing that it was false, just a story, the rest of the time convinced; convinced that Salazar Slytherin had truly constructed his own hidden chamber, home to his own monster, one to rid the school of filth…

Reading, thinking, puzzling. Searching, searching, searching. And finally, finally, successful.

Tom felt like laughing. How hidden! Where no one would expect it. And, he suspected, no one would be able to open it unless they were a parseltongue.  
Unless, it was said, they were a the heir of Slytherin himself. Tom was nervous. If he was right, if he could open the chamber, it would be proof, proof of his bloodline.  
That would be a credential better than knowing your parents!  
_That_ would make having a muggle mother in a house of purebloods less of a shameful secret!  
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. He opened them again and focused on the engraved snake.

_Open!_


	21. Chapter 21

21

There is no sound in the library but the quiet flicking of pages. Even as he reads, occasionally pausing to make a few notes, Tom appreciates the quiet symphony of the sound of several people reading at once. There's a steady gentle rustle from the main section of the library, where a few conscientious students are making a start on their holiday work. Most have given up studying, and run around outside, looking forwards to the holidays, only a few short days away. He is the only one in the restricted section, with several books piled on his table. Some of them really are for work purposes. Some for potions, some for defence against the dark arts, some even for care of magical creatures. The librarian had given him permission to work in the restricted section, rather than carrying them all out. After all, he is Tom Riddle. What harm could he do. He smirks to himself at the thought. Tom Riddle is perharps harmless. But he has decided that Tom Riddle is not who he intends to be. Not when it seems that there has never been a Tom Riddle in the Wizarding world, which means his father was a muggle. Tom can't decide if he hates muggles or mudbloods more. Muggles are magicless, worthless beings. But mudbloods are muggles who have somehow gotten magic, and should not exist. He doesn't want to be associated with a muggle father in any way. He even has an idea how to go about it. It had taken him a while, but eventually he had found something he liked: Lord Voldemort. The idea had come to him when he first accepted that it must have been his mother – his mother who had _died_ – who had magic. Tom didn't want to die. And he had thought and pondered and looked at anagrams of his name, and realised that he could declare that for all to hear.  
_Voldemort_.

He had always been interested in preventing death, but it was only with his advance to prefect that he began to find the means. He jotted a few more notes. To any outside observer, they were simply homework notes about dark objects. He was hardly going to write down such incriminating information as to how to go about creating one. He didn't even write much about what a 'horcrux' was. Why would he need to? It was easy to remember. A few jotted notes that would remind him of where to find the information when needed, and that was it.  
When he reached the end of his reading – some really was for his essays – Tom put the books back in the correct place, and wandered out of the library, thanking the librarian politely on his way past. He was in a good mood. He had found what he needed. He wasn't sure quite when he would put it into action. If Dumbledore even suspected, he would be doomed. Passing the girl's bathroom, he heard voices, and scowled to himself. It was difficult to visit the creature in the chamber, and he found he missed it. But soon it would be the holidays, and so much easier to sneak down to the secret room. A real live basilisk, sleeping under the school. It was almost unbelievable.

"Hey! Oh, for goodness- give that back!" Thoughts of the secret chamber and the basilisk fled Tom's head, and he quickened his pace. It took a moment to process that what he had heard was not, in fact, an altercation between Penny and Slytherins (though they did seem to happen worryingly often, a combination of her hated status as enemy seeker and mudblood.) It was a Ravenclaw-Ravenclaw matter, and therefore none of his business and unlikely to lead to an actual problem. But he couldn't quite help stopping and watching from the staircase above. One of the Ravenclaw beaters – Alcott - was holding a book above his head, and Penny was trying to reach it. That in itself didn't bother Tom hugely. There didn't seem to be much malice involved.  
What bothered Tom was the way Alcott was grinning in an almost indulgent fashion, the lightness in the tone of his voice as he teased the irate girl, the slight pride in his expression. And what bothered him the most was the suddenly protective way that the boy shifted to stand half in front of Penny when he noticed Tom, as though he expected some kind of attack and wanted to defend her. Preventing any trace of expression from betraying him, Tom sauntered past.  
"Having fun there, Alcott? Rooks?" Alcott grinned and dropped an arm around Penny's shoulders, and it took all of Tom's self control not to punch him. Penny elbowed him instead, hard, causing the taller Ravenclaw to wheeze and double over, She grabbed the book and stalked away. Tom smirked. He couldn't help it. Alcott glared at him.  
"If I were a betting man, Alcott, I would say that she isn't really that fond of you."  
"Fonder of me than - she would ever be of - someone like - _you_." Tom arched an eyebrow.  
"Fond of me? I should hope not." Alcott snarled – Tom hadn't even realised that people really did that – and lunged at him, which on a flight of stairs was easy to avoid. "Oh dear…temper, temper." Some distant part of his brain informed Tom that he was looking for a fight, wanted an excuse to hex and curse until they had to carry Alcott to the hospital wing. Another part reminded him that it wasn't a sensible idea.  
"You know, Alcott, I don't see why you're so annoyed. I know the truth can be hard, but better to hear it from an impassive bystander, surely? After all, when a girl pays so little attention to you that the only way you can get her attention is to snatch her book away as she reads it, most people would accept she probably doesn't stay up all night daydreaming of the moment you sweep her off her feet. And don't pull faces. Really, you should thank me."  
"Why – would I – thank – _you_?"  
"Well, an elbow to the stomach is probably the most contact you'll ever get from her, isn't it? And that wouldn't have happened if I hadn't come along." _Because you would either have given the book back at the top of the stairs, or she would have hexed you._  
The punch didn't really come as a surprise. What was a surprise was that he was almost happy about it.

The slap was even more of a surprise. It wasn't a hard one, and barely hurt. It was more for emphasis than anything.  
"What were you _thinking_? I left once I had my book. You didn't have to – to – get in a fight with him!"  
"I didn't. I merely pointed out that common conventions suggest that if a girl makes it clear she isn't interested, you cease bothering her. He didn't take it well." She sighed.  
"You didn't have to. He's annoying, but he isn't really a problem." She still sounded annoyed, but her arms slid around him anyway, so Tom supposed she wasn't really angry. "You know he's a beater, right?"  
"I had noticed, yes."  
"So, what made you think getting into a fight with him was wise?" Tom shrugged.  
_It wasn't. I know that. But he was so sure that you liked him more than me, and that really shouldn't bother me but it did, and I'm hardly going to tell you that._  
There was silence for a few minutes, and then she sighed.  
"Sorry. I shouldn't be getting angry at you."


	22. Chapter 22

22

It was just a fairly ordinary day in the Christmas holidays.  
Hogwarts looked like something from a Christmas card, covered in snow.  
The halls were quiet, for once, as only those who needed to study and the odd few with reasons to not go home this time were still in residence.  
And as usual, Tom had spent half the day in the library, the other half in the Chamber of Secrets. Although it was cold and damp, it always made him feel, if not _cheerful_, then content. It was his. Proof of who he was and where he was from and, most importantly, where he _belonged_.  
He had sat down by the fire in the Slytherin common room after dinner, just him, to read a book for a while and enjoy the quiet, as he had for the past week and a half.

There had been perhaps twenty minutes of peace before the earth shattered.

It was a single sheet of paper, caught between the pages of his book. He could even imagine how it had gotten there. He could remember the hasty collecting of his belongings, sifting them out from Alcott's, shoving them in his bag. It must have been caught up, slipped inside the book absent mindedly, and stayed there unnoticed until he started to read. He clutched the letter in one hand as he raced through the corridors and up the staircases.  
He could see it shaking in his grip from the corner of his eye as he babbled the password to the statue outside of Dippet's office, and scurried up the stairs.  
It crumpled as he knocked frantically on the door, and was crushed as he turned the handle to go in.

"Found this in my bag – before the holidays, must have dropped it – doesn't sound good – " He held it out, not knowing how to explain what he meant, and for the briefest moment wanted to snatch it away as the headmaster took it.  
There was a rush of activity around him. He hadn't registered that Dumbledore was in the room until he was pushed gently aside so that the professor could read over his superior's shoulder.  
Tom stood motionless as Dippet scurried about, fetching floo powder and contacting someone, as Dumbledore departed via a rapidly made portkey.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, in the numbness of terror.  
Because he hadn't had a letter for the past week, and she usually wrote every few days.  
Because she'd been different, for the last few days of term, jumpy, and affectionate in a way that was almost desperate.  
Because she had gone home when she usually stayed, and now he had seen the letter that summoned her back.  
Because she'd gone back to them when they had found out that she was a witch, and they had promised to help her.

And then Dumbledore was back, face suddenly looking decades older, drawn and pale, and if he had been anyone else, Tom Riddle would have wept, or fainted, or raged. But Tom Riddle did nothing, did not move or speak or react, just waited as the coldness filled him

Because Penelope Rooks was dead.


	23. Chapter 23

23

"Put down your quills, please!"  
There was a general sigh of relief from the mass of students. Their OWLs were finally done, and even those despairing over their performance were almost past caring. Just so long as they didn't have to sit another exam.

He strode out of the exam hall with the other students. Some made their way to common rooms, to pack. Others went in search of friends who had already finished. Tom wandered. In only a day, he would be on the train back to the orphanage. He wanted to remember as much as possible, to see him through the long break. It wasn't really necessary; the castle was seared into his memory as the first – only – place he belonged. But the more memories of it he had, the more memories he could live in in the long lonely days to come.

Careful not to be observed writing, he wandered the halls, jotting down notes on what he saw. A conversation with a portrait was recorded once out of sight. The library described, the way dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight, the echoing emptiness of it now that exams were done. The view from the top of the Astronomy tower, the lake and the Quidditch pitch, the forest with the groundkeeper's hut perched in its shadow.

Sometimes it was a blessing. The careful record of nearly every day, every moment of amusement, of satisfaction, of success, of anything to distract him.  
Sometimes it was a curse. The record of moments he would deny ever happened, of things he would never have written if he hadn't been absolutely certain his diary in the hands of anyone other than him would be blank.

Perhaps he should have written only those memories that were true diary entries, from the start of this year. But he had been alternating between numbness and pain and fury, and just wanted it all out. Out of his mind, and he had hoped that writing it all down would banish it from memory to page. Instead he found himself reading and re-reading. The temptation to do so was rarely far away.  
The pain if he did was almost overwhelming, but somehow it was good pain, addictive. It was the pain of seeing everything when knowing the ending, the bitterness of wondering how things could have been different. Of wondering what would have happened if of the two books he had selected from the library to read for pleasure, he had chosen to start with the other, and found the letter like an unexpected bookmark on the first day of the holiday, perhaps even before the train had pulled into King's Cross.

_How different would things have been?_

Whenever these thoughts captured him, he would shake them off as best he could. The past had happened, and could not be changed. To mourn, to mope and wish for the ability to reach back in time and alter things, was pointless. To waste away in grief would be weak. And he refused to be weak. To be weak was to be worthless. To be worthless was to be ignored, forgotten.  
Tom Riddle vowed privately that the world would never forget him.


	24. Chapter 24

24

It was a simple spell. So simple a thing, just two words, to end lives. But the intent had to be there, and it was. Oh, it _was._

He could have killed them immediately. But that wasn't right. They had to be introduced. After all. Tom Riddle should know he had a son. The elderly parents should know they had a grandson. It was only right. And it was only right that they be told what had happened since. The orphanage, the discovery of magic, the lack of family.

"I am going to kill you."

It was only fair to warn them. Only fair that they should suffer, as he had because of them. Because of the father who had left, and the grandparents who must have given no aid, dismissed the son and wife, then, perhaps that which he despised most in them, accepted the son back once he had left his wife. As if that changed what had gone before.  
He paused only a moment, to enjoy their terror and confusion. He had convinced them already of the truth in his words, with the kind of magic that was in truth harmless, but showy. He killed them quickly. The parents first. With just enough pause to let them see that she was dead, then onto the grandfather. Then his father. With a slightly longer pause, and a soft smile.  
"Hello, father."  
G_oodbye scum_.

He made the horcrux there and then, at the scene of his crime. He hadn't planned to. He hadn't expected to find them, but his raving uncle had told him who and where they were, though he wouldn't recall it at all. He would awake with false memories, and no recollection of the young man who looked like the Riddle his squib of a sister had run off with – though not quite a squib, which was something. Riddle wasn't sure he could have borne being the offspring of a squib and a muggle – and no memory of losing the ring. _The ring_.  
It was fairly simple. Just a block stone in a plain ring, with a little family crest etched on one side. He loved it already. It was his. His family. Not the direct family; he wanted nothing to remind him of them, not even his name, as soon as he could really change it. But the greater family, the descendents of Slytherin himself. It was a link to the past, an anchor linking him, Tom Riddle, half-blood, to the greatest wizard in all time.

He was surprised at how little time it took to make a horcrux. It seemed like the creation of an object that made you immortal should be a long, arduous process. It wasn't. It was simple. Like the killing curse; not complex, but requiring a certain strength of intent.

The incident was noted in the Daily Prophet, and Tom hid a satisfied smile behind a blank façade. His uncle had recited exactly the story Tom had intended, and been locked away for it. There wasn't even a pang of guilt; it was hardly as though he had had a purpose anyway, and frankly was a disgrace to his ancestry. Absent mindedly, Tom twisted the ring on his finger a few times, liking the weight of it. The weight of history.


	25. Chapter 25

25

He opened the diary gently, reverentially. His second Horcrux. Everything he wrote in it had faded, assimilated by the part of his soul within. He still updated it, hidden away in the Room of Requirement. He couldn't keep it in the Chamber of Secrets anymore. It had been hard enough sneaking back in to retrieve it once. Sneaking into the girls' bathroom would be too difficult now. He picked up a quill and methodically began writing down everything important that had happened that day. What an important day. He'd gotten away with it. He'd even been awarded a 'special services to the school' award.

'_Even so, Dumbledore is still watching me closely. Everyone else believes that the half-giant murdered Myrtle. I almost want to laugh at them, but that would somewhat expose me. I am more convinced than ever that my basilisk must sleep again, until long into the future when I can awake her once again and continue Salazar's work.'_

He watched as the ink sank into the paper and faded away. He didn't expect a reply. There was no point. What could the memory tell him that he didn't know himself? He closed the plain leather book and held it for a moment, then slipped it into the drawer of the old desk, and sealed the drawer with a spell. No one would find it, even if they discovered the room.

Tom unconsciously slowed as he passed the girls' bathroom. He could hear the sobs even from outside. Myrtle the weeping girl, bawling her eyes out even in death. Curse the wretch. Even dead, he couldn't be certain that she'd stay quiet. Though admittedly he was being paranoid. She'd only know that Penny liked _him_. She hadn't once mentioned that he liked her in return, and he thought that he had behaved in a way that would prevent any such suspicions arising. But even so, it irked him. He had planned to get rid of a muggleborn, create his horcrux, and silence her inconvienient prattle all in one go. Two out of three wasn't bad, but it wasn't perfect.

And Lord Voldemort had decided that perfection was to be achieved.


	26. Chapter 26

26

"Leave me."  
"My lord?"  
"Leave!" He did not explain. There was no need to explain. He was their Dark Lord, and his word was their law. The Death Eaters quietly filed out of the room, to continue their destruction. This would be such a blow for Dumbledore. Not only some of his beloved muggles, being killed more to give a few new recruits a chance to practice than anything. Some of the weakest of those muggles, the most vulnerable. The ones that Dumbledore would, perhaps, grieve the most. Those whose minds were already broken, the ones who screamed even before the Death Eaters reached them, who saw them not as some alien invasion, but as their nightmares made reality.  
And then there was this. With a flick of his wand he sealed and soundproofed the room. Not that his servants would ever listen in, of course. But it was a necessary precaution. He stepped forwards quietly. He had not expected this.

"Rooks. What are you doing here?" She looked at him, and past him, and he realised that she really was broken. It took a moment for her to respond.  
"…Riddle?" It hurt. He hated himself for that, for feeling pain over a mudblood– pain that she'd been _alive_, pain that she was hurt, and even pain at the fact she remembered, the pain that came from happiness so intense that it burned. She tried to sit up.  
"Riddle?" _She's not sure._  
"Rooks. I repeat. What are you doing here?" Suddenly her hand was clasped around his wrist.  
"You're real. I – was it – was it all real?"  
"Was _what _real?" He hadn't felt this out of control since that day of mixed numbness and fury, so many years ago. And now there was more pain, pain at seeing her, the girl who had dared to threaten Slytherins in their own common room, reduced to utter bewilderment.  
"You – me – Hogwarts – Quidditch and potions – and - Diagon Ally…"  
"And magic. Yes. Of course it is, you daft Ravenclaw."  
"Ravenclaw. Where those of ready mind dwell…" She seemed to be coming back into focus. She smiled, slightly. More pain – surely there was a limit to the pain one could feel? – pain at the ghost of the wide grin, the hesitation, the fear. "I – they kept saying it wasn't true…"  
"What happened to you?" _Does it make any difference?_  
"I – I went home. My family had found out that I was…well, a witch…they didn't like it. My brother had always known. Mum suspected." She shuddered. _So that was true._  
"You went home to your own murder."  
"No. I went home to my family."  
"You knew what they were going to do." _You knew long before you got the letter saying that they would 'help' you, fix you, make you normal._ She looked at him steadily.  
"I – yes." She turned her head as someone screamed, then looked back at him. "And you? What are you doing here?" He returned her gaze steadily. Eventually she bowed her head.  
"You went bad, then…" He curled a lip in disdain, ignoring the faint pang of shame.  
"Have I gone worse than your family?" She flinched, then looked back at him.  
"I don't know, Tom. But you're different."  
"It's Lord Voldemort, now." Again that ghost of a smile, but with tears waiting to fall. _What do I do? I could save her. I could lie, tell them she was a hostage, a slave…I could hide her, not tell anyone. It would be easy._

_I don't want to._

It was a slight shock, but not much.  
She was a mudblood.  
That was all that had ever mattered, wasn't it?

She knew. He could see it in her eyes. She knew and she made no move to stop him, to avoid it, to live a little longer.  
And he hated her for it.  
She swallowed.  
"Use magic. Please. One last time."  
"As if I'd do anything else."  
She was slipping again, drifting back to uncertainty. He flicked his wand. Flowers drifted from the end, following the path through the air. _For old times' sake._ She smiled, properly smiled. He leant forwards and kissed her gently, once. _The goodbye we never had_.

And he killed her, and made his next Horcrux, his beautiful diadem. He hid it in Hogwarts before meeting Dumbledore. There were new lines on that face.  
_How many of those are for the mudblood you failed to save twice, I wonder? How would you feel if you knew who had cast the spell? _

_To feel is to be weak, old man. There is power, and power is knowledge, and I know this: Your 'love' is a lie. There is only power, only the strong and the weak._


	27. Chapter 27

27

He surveyed the front page of the Prophet with satisfaction. He had one of the Death Eaters supply it to him on a daily basis, wherever he was. It varied. He could hardly buy his own property; he would have to interact with neighbours, keep up a front to prevent suspicion. Instead he set up bases wherever he felt like it. Much as he wanted to use the house of one of his followers and live in grandeur, he knew it was impractical. He must be untraceable, particularly now that he was identified as a real threat, not just some outspoken political activist.

The proof of this was in not just the headlines, but on most pages of the paper. Warnings about security. Advertisements for advanced defence courses. Comments such as 'in these dark times' - _it is always dark before the light is seen_ – and a general undertone of barely repressed panic throughout. But it was the photo on the front page he was surveying with something akin to joy. His Dark Mark, floating in the sky. The design had come from a few sources; partly the first sighting of the basilisk as it poured from the mouth of Salazar's statue to greet its new master, partly to symbolise his own constant presence – the snake – in the face of death, and in that, partly his aim – to remove the worthless (through death, the skull) and leave only the deserving. His arm burned briefly, and he closed his eyes. Snape. With a quick check to ensure that all the security spells were in place, he summoned the young Death Eater.  
"My lord."  
"You have something to report, Severus?" he was mildly surprised. Usually, any news was given at the periodic meetings. Snape was not assigned to any task at present, which meant he was either attempting to curry favour by undermining another death eater – _do the fools truly think that I am not aware of their little games?_ – or had really seen something of interest. It would be the first time Snape had attempted to play the political game, and Voldemort listened with interest.  
"My lord, I have news. There has been a prophecy…"

He listened with mounting horror, anger, and gratitude to this servant who brought such warning. The incompleteness of the prophecy was aggravating, but not problematic. The essential fact was there. A child would be born with the ability to defeat him. This must be stopped. He sent Snape away, with true thanks, and considered who these parents had been. Who of the many who fought him had defied him thrice?

It took a while; the list of defiant wizards was long. But eventually, he had it down to two choices. The Longbottoms, or the Potters. He considered it. The Longbottoms were old wizard stock, with many Aurors in their family. The Potter family was as old and noted, but the woman…a mudblood. He considered for an hour.  
The simplest, he decided, would be to kill both.

Time passed, and his desperation increased. It was not until Pettigrew entered the fold that he found his prey: the Potters. He was glad. He would kill the child, and when the Longbottoms were discovered, he would kill that one too for good measure. Though he felt in his bones that it would be the Potter brat in the prophecy; afterall, a Longbottom would have nothing to fear from the Dark Lord, so long as it was not like its parents. And a halfblood would be determined to prove itself, always with that stigma of having tainted blood. He should know.  
The Potter child would die first, and Lord Voldemort would be unthreatened, for the rest of time.


	28. Chapter 28

28

"Step aside, girl!"  
He could see her fear, almost taste it. Behind her was the child, the child he had come to kill.  
"Only one must die tonight."  
Snape had asked, begged for her life to be spared. Perhaps he shouldn't have bothered giving her the choice. She was a mudblood, worthless. Her death would be nothing, the death of a leech upon their world. But Snape had been a good servant, had brought him the news of this _threat_, been loyal and reliable from the moment he took the Mark. And he asked only for the life of this woman. So Tom gave her a choice. She could live; or she could choose to die. And if she chose to die, then she didn't _deserve_ to live.

Even so, as he stepped past her body he sighed, just once. Her death was nothing, she was nothing, and she chose to fall, but he would have liked to reward Snape. He avoided looking at the way her hair had fallen. It was too familiar. _Red bright over dark clothes, like fire in the night. _He pushed it from his mind and looked at the child. He wondered if it understood what had happened. _See? The muggleborn are weak. They choose death over life, they choose weakness. And they spread, weakness spreads through us like a disease. Don't cry, little one. You will not be apart from your parents for long. You will join them now._

And then there was pain, pain that tore him apart and scattered him, a pain that what was left fled from without thought. Pain that made thought impossible until it faded, and he descended into a dreary half-life, drifting, watching and waiting and plotting.


	29. Chapter 29

29

"Try for a little remorse, Tom."  
"What?"  
For just a fraction of a moment, he considered it. _Remorse._  
It wasn't a feeling. Remorse was long gone, with trust, with faith, with the possibility of caring.

It was the echo of a feeling that could once have been there. It was the memory, detached and hazy, of _her_, storming away because he had stood by and allowed her to be hurt. Of the way she had glanced at him sometimes, knowing that he agreed with what was being said, even when he kept quiet. _I was certain of everything, except when you were there._

It had, so briefly, reached out the hand of peace to one who had cast it away as a weakness, when he slew the red haired woman who refused to step away from the cot, when he thought of looking at Snape – _Snape_ who had been a _traitor_ – and informing him that she had made a choice. _I remember how that felt._

It was there, _almost_ a feeling, in the figure only a few meters away, with red hair and arms around a child with the same hair, and in the knowledge that he _could_ have given her that. He could have saved her. _I didn't have to kill you._

_But I wanted to_.

Remorse was something that could only be seen from afar, distant, the echo of a child's dream.

Remorse could no longer touch him.


	30. Chapter 30

30

Tom Riddle blinked.

"Wha- where am I?" There was a sound next to him, of someone closing a book.  
"We're at King's Cross, silly. Honestly, Riddle, the amount of time you and I spent sat on this platform!" He looked at her. How could she be there? How could he be there? She looked at him, head to one side.  
"Well, come on, then. You took so long to get here. The train's about to leave."  
He hesitated, unsure. He could _remember_ being hit by his own curse. He could remember the battle, the time before the battle, the hollow time between his return and his departure, trying to kill the boy, and everything before then. It all seemed so long ago, though at the same time as though it had all just happened.

"I killed you." She nodded.  
"I was there. But I did ask you to." She sighed. "You did some terrible things, you know."  
Remorse found him, once again. After so long, there was a lot of remorse to feel, and for a moment he drowned in it, before pushing it away again. But it lurked, a heavy feeling in his stomach. He tried, once more, to ignore it.  
"I became immortal." She just looked at him, steadily, and he felt himself shrink. He hadn't felt this small in so long. He hadn't _felt_ this much in so long. He'd forgotten how much it hurt.  
"And now you are dead. Come on, Riddle. The train is about to leave." He followed, after a moment of hesitation.

The two students boarded the train, and went…on.

* * *

**Reviews welcomed with open arms :)**

A brief note on the inspiration for this story: It began with number 17 of the fic 88 ways to annoy Voldemort :17. 'Did you even HAVE a girlfriend? Like, ever?'  
**That combined with the fact that Dumbledore, always so certain of the power of love, was equally certain that Voldemort was beyond redemption, did not know how to care, and generally incabable of love (hence the title).  
I wanted to come up with something that sort of explained that certainty. I figured Voldemort having murdered the girl he had once, if not _loved_, at least cared for, might have been sufficient to convince Dumbledore that he really was beyond saving.  
**


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